Like Michael Corleone, just when I try to go legitimate and just when I think I'm out, some assholes drag me back in.
Now, before you reflexively begin leveling the usual accusations of my being obsessed with The Chadwicks (sounds like a reality TV show on the Sons of the Soil Channel, doesn't it?), I have to post a disclaimer here that this wound up in my inbox early this morning courtesy of a random reader who no doubt knows of my trials and tribulations with these lunatics. The email I post below was proferred to me, unsolicited, because she got it into her Jebus-crazed head that I was the secret author of some comment or email that my cameo correspondent had sent.
I don't know the content or context of the communique except to say it must have been written in a spirit of jest. All I can say is that I have better things to do with my time like finishing an old novel that I'd started years ago and keeping the gas and lights on and the pot boiling. But this is what was forwarded to me by someone who appears to be a Mystery Science Theater 3000
Dave asked me to respond
to this. We talked about it and decided that there's only two things
that could possibly be happening here. The first, and most likely, is
that this is a fake account that you are using to "go undercover" to
"get dirt on Chadwick" like you did when Duncan Browning, (and for the record, what happened to him after we left was just awful so we have forgiven him for betraying us), gave you his phone number and you called us and did that
ridiculous acting job when we were trying to enjoy our "After Church"
time on a beautiful Sabbath afternoon. If this is the case, then it's
every bit as pathetic as that, because nobody would ever send an email
this flipping retarded except you.
The second case is that
you have recruited some woman to send this for you, but you obviously
wrote this, Robert. To the young (or old) lady, we don't hold this
against you. We know you can't possibly be this stupid and we know you
didn't write it. It has the stink of Robert Crawford all over it. But if
you would be so kind to pass this message along to him, that would be
Robert, I want you to know that Dave is MINE! He
belongs TO ME! You cannot have him! I know you want him, but as he has
told you countless times before, no means no. Your attempts to flirt
with him like this used to be cute, now it's just annoying. I own him
and I'm not letting you have him. Besides, don't you have a wife or
girlfriend or something? How about trying to bang her instead of trying
to steal MY man!
God Bless You
- Fiona Chadwick
I should just stop right here and silently shake my head but there's just so much that is criminally wrong with this email that I don't know where to start.
First off, I, again, don't know what started this and secondly, I haven't any idea who called them or when on their glorious Magic Underwear Sabbath Day. But she seems to take an almost admirably proprietary "ownership" in "Dave" and I guess we're supposed to just ignore the fact that she nearly broke her neck getting from Cruz campaign HQ in Idaho to be with her long-lost love at the exact same moment that news broke about the six figure publishing contract that "Dave" still
hasn't gotten around to telling his alleged readership about while he's busy begging money from them on Patreon
Thirdly, the concept of "owning" a husband is kind of reminiscent of Fiona's and "Dave's" Mormon forebears back when they owned slaves. Ownership, in my mind, is something you claim.when you're afraid you won't be able to otherwise retain it. Which, with Becky Lynch never far from what passes for "Dave's" thoughts is always a distinct possibility.
Fourthly, the idea that I've been flirting with someone I've hated for nigh unto these last two plus years with an unholy passion buries the outrage meter and starts a new one that charts laughter. If I've been pursuing him from all the way in central MA, then I have to say the obsession and attraction was, to say the least, mutual:
These are random screengrabs of just two day's worth of activity I got from his IP Address when he was still living in Utah on April 1st and 15th, respectively (and neither day shows the full extent of his "interest" in this forum. April 1st alone saw 600-700 hits from his IP address). If he can produce a similar photoset of activity from my
IP address, then I'll own up to an unnatural attraction to "Dave's" masculine charms. But he won't and can't.
This is what religion, paranoia and a healthy dose of right wing nuttery will do to your brain, people. Like the rage zombies in Danny Boyle's 28
series, paranoia will make you swat at nonexistent flies or at the wrong people. But to be honest with y'all, I could sooner envision a threesome with Trump, Cruz and Jeb!
Bush than my having even the slightest interest in "Dave" Chadwick's lawsuit-riddled "career" let alone his person.
But, hey, Fiona, if you think you can make him a church-going Christian and help him get over his ongoing obsession with WWE wrestler Becky Lynch, more power to you, girl. Try dying your hair carrot red. Maybe that'll
ease him him in his painful transition from Becky to you. Try learning some basic wrestling moves like a half Nelson, if he's so inclined in bed during your tenderer moments. An Irish brogue couldn't hurt, either. (Irish foreplay: "Brace yerself, Joe, me bucko!")
And I will admit to a middling bit of interest in his career path from time to time, especially little gems
such as this that I receive from a regular reader that restores my faith that, sometimes in life, the most evil of us get a fat stake driven right through their black, fucking little hearts.
Fuck you and your Kolob Marvel comics God, Fiona Chadwick. If He really existed, people like you and "Dave" wouldn't exist.
is my stalker's version of humor and parody. Reading this, you won't be surprised why his books don't sell, why people on Reddit thought that his Microsoft Paint comics are as funny as AIDS on Fire Island and why he's gotten a whopping $69 after over a month of begging on Patreon for money. This also comes with a dedicated Twitter account (that has since been taken down courtesy of yours truly and his loyal Twitter followers), which required setting up a dedicated email address and harvesting old avatar .jpegs I'm no longer using in his pathetic attempt to be humorous. You'd think with a new book contract, a new wife and a whole new life (which includes a gig on Fandom), he'd be too busy for this puerile bullshit.
But this is Jailbird Joseph David Chadwick we're talking about, a walking DSM V and the most obsessive, pathetic stalker in the history of the internet.